First Chorus from “Gesualdo”

(This is the first chorus section from my play “Gesualdo.” The story of the Baglioni family can be found in Jacob Burckhardt’s The Civilization of the Renaissance in Italy, p. 20-24 in the Modern Library edition. Other inspirations for this piece can be found in Nietzsche’s Twilight of the Idols and The Antichrist.)

Like the bloodshed that dawned in the morning of Man And delighted the spirits of Grecian command, So was Italy’s Renaissance caught in her fray And the zenith of Man was well-nigh underway When Perugia warred in the dark of the night When the favor of Justice cared only for might And the power was tugged back and forth like the sea Between families bold, Baglione and Oddi; They kept bravi beside them and all through the town Which made violence in public seem perfectly sound To the point that the schools laid to waste their old peace And chose swords over books and some plates over fleece. They continued to squander their lives as we spend Until Ares declared the Oddi had to bend To the powerful fists of the great Baglione Who took Christ off his seat and placed Life on his throne And the crows stuffed with blood were of much freer sorts As they perched on the churches that now served as forts In a city that changed to a war hungry camp That left clerical diplomats wounded and damp.

When the third year of rule had slid gradually by And the nooses had strangled so many a spy Full of greed little Charles the Frenchman arrived: With his newly-won Naples his army contrived To escape through Perugia fleeing the storm That was burning and rife with a powerful swarm Of despising Italians chasing him back; But he bothered the wrong kind of men – they attacked: Both the allies and enemies banded in wrath To defend and destroy in a frenzy-red bath That came washing through valleys and crushing the homes And the peasants were turned into murdering drones That left Franco barbarians slit in a ditch For the bellies of wolves whom they bit without hitch Sinking ravenous teeth in their soft measly flesh. Alexander the Sixth, the great pope new and fresh Who had Rome by the sword and the Earth by the cross, Even he could not trick their old quick-witted boss When he offered to throw them a well-cornered fest To which Guido replied: “I would think it the best For our troops to pike yours off a cornerless cliff.” Thus the Borgia surrendered and heightened their myth; Then the exiles too couldn’t break their decree Though they tried when they raided to highest degree The interior forum with hundreds of men; Simonetto the son was depending on ten – Just a boy of eighteen with a fiery gut – Yet he slaughtered the hordes with a blazing-quick cut ‘Til with twenty-two wounds he was forced then to share With his brother Astorre who charged with a mare And he shocked all the watchers who saw him as Mars Resurrecting from Rome to raise glory to stars For the people of Italy dying for bliss Who were longing to taste the concealed pagan kiss That would rock the whole world with fine dancing and war And let men become kids on Elysium’s shore . . .

As if signaling clear the whole Renaissance fate These so bold Baglione conjured envy and hate From deceivers who pounced at a wedding so grand By destroying the brothers with bravi at hand.

In the dirt and the dust Pure Roman gods rust.

Strophe 1

A noble truth sings through our mouths, A blast of wind from ancient souths; We are the lungs of paganhood Who breathe the air of misty wood So long ago, but now revealed.

Antistrophe 1

And yet our soul may portent sing The Christian sound, if master bring The darkened clouds of death and pain And all that seeks to bring men shame And leave the burning flame concealed.

Epode

But alone we may surge With a bone and a dirge, Some elegies For Revelries That clean and shine and purge!

Strophe 2

Binding bronze ‘neath baking sun, Bowls of wine that sparked our run; Power, myth, and hearts of spurs, Kicking dirt on easterners: Live in strife, but die as one.

Antistrophe 2

Back behind our iron flanks Tired fools had climbed our ranks: Taught our boys to question life Split our bond with mental knife; Sparta came and we were done.

Epode

What was real Made Ideal by Socrates the gnome. Zeus, O Zeus, you made our very race! Plato – wretch! you follower of waste!

Strophe 3

Troy’s great fall is in our book; Rome then rose, the world it shook, Gladd’ning breasts of hearty brawn, Drinking sap with wild faun, Lifting Man from childhood.

Antistrophe 3

Lazy peace turned steak to slop, Plebeians came out on top; Values of a chewing cow Wrought the need to praise and bow: Lifting Cross as highest good.

Epode

Words and guilt Never built The ramparts of high Rome.

Lead us, Caesar, bring the gods! Paul has made us sick as dogs!

Strophe 4

Born once more this golden Life, Thick with art and wide with strife: Shining up from Rome’s new face, – White with robes and full of grace – Wolves appeared amongst the sheep.

Antistrophe 4

Borgia rose and took the throne; Rome took on an ancient tone. Deals with France to let his son Rend his robes and take a gun, Took Milan for France to keep.

Epode

The veil was torn By ancient horn And plague was cured away.

Strophe 5

Finding all the states awry, Raised his sword up to the sky; Drums then ate the meek debates, Rumbling all the warring states, Sounding Cesare’s decree:

Antistrophe 5

“Flip the church with Roman hand, Drive the faith out from the land!” Grave deceit then caught him fast Slip he did when father passed, Lost to those who hate the free.

Epode

The Higher Man Forever ban’d From seeing Glory-day.

Strophe 6

Gold stacked high in Vatican Shined up to the north again, Then a priest that lacked in health Seethed with hatred at their wealth Yelled with rage to cause their bust.

Antistrophe 6

Tumult grew; the emperor Led the men he ruled over Against the French for quick attack: But lacked the strength to hold them back . . . They sacked the gleaming Rome to dust . . .

Epode

Twisted seer Fixed his sneer To curse St. Peter’s dome.

Borgia, Borgia, our last chance! Luther ruined healthy dance:

Kept what’s weak and botched in us, Now we watch the Age of Pus . . .

Once the songs of the past had been found and performed The despisers of life could not hold back the warmed For the country of Italy swelled from below In a swirling and boiling and fiery glow For the graves of their fathers were burning the feet Of the sons that were gath’ring their glorious heat To destroy holy chains of so long a decline That were bending and molding by steady incline, Being twisted and bent from the wildest blaze Until gods had declared the thick earth had to raise Like Vesuvius cracking the heavens with hell! Burning the stars with so violent a swell! Pealing through space with a meaningful yell, Rocking the empty and pitiful shell Of a world that once lived and will live now as well! Shooting sludge full of fire and muting the bell That was ringing from pulpits to scare all the folk And disguise the return to the cosmos’s yolk As some horrible sin from the serpent’s dark wit – But the glory of life was too grand to submit So the people then basked in the glorious flow Of the rushing and whipping and beautiful show Of the writer and painter and perilous man Who were wrenching the Spirit to infinite span Who were shaping the human to perfect ideal Yet preserving his aspects with faith in the real: Celebrating and praising this wonderful earth, Bringing praise and displays of incredible mirth, Shining light on this life from sublimity’s mount! . . . . . . But the spirit of gravity pulled at the fount Bringing lava that brightened the face of the Night Upon innocent children who wanted delight; Bringing hammer and punishment lost in the rave Upon Man who was freed but returned to a slave. Now they gather upon the oppressive terrain Bringing Italy back to the jailor’s domain; Turning spirits of Spring into spirits of ice On the corpse of a lion that’s buried by mice: These sick robe wearing rodents that peasants call priests Drawing pews from the ashes of claw-bearing beasts. So we end our depressing request to return. From the ashes of giants some embers may burn With the fires Parnassian and Promethean Which had scared all the gods and might scare them again. But the cynic must tap us and feed us his doubt; We must wonder if this be the start of a bout, We must wonder so gravely at what really fell And admit to ourselves that the rest could be hell, But a hell filled with hail and the sounds of machines And an age filled with money but nothing that gleams. We must question the chance of a genius so great Being raised in a world that’s been buried with slate: For when beauty is traded for miserable ease It should never surprise us that ugliness breeds; For when Evil is questioned by merchants and Work It should never surprise us if Man goes berserk. Thus we drag from the ruins of Borgia’s defeat Only two forms of man that we ever shall meet: One has bitter restraint with an envious frown, And the other wills pleasure until he goes down.